HD 'It's An Ill Wind'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE; Aurors!; Pervy!Robards; Inimitable!Kingsley. Harry's making a few changes in his life and his job, mainly because OP's issues are making life difficult: Draco's insistence on shagging at work, their skeevy boss Robards and the endless red-tape.
1. Chapter 1

**HD 'It's An Ill Wind…' Part 1**

"—come here, Potter," Malfoy invited, and patted his lap.

"No, you tosser," Harry returned, staying firmly seated no matter what it cost him. "Piss off."

"But I want you to," Malfoy whinged, and batted those eyelashes of his. Harry adored those eyelashes, and the eyes they shielded, and the face about them, and the hair that hid half of it, when Draco peered at him, chin cocked at an angle, just like that.

"I do," Draco sounded quite certain.

"I'm ticked with your very existence, Malfoy," Harry stated. "Why would I want to let you fuck with me more?"

"'Cause I do it so well?" Draco offered, and ran a long, thin hand up the scarred chair arm, rubbing the aged oak with carnal insinuation. Harry had never seen anyone do that to furniture, but this was Malfoy he was dealing with, so, yeah. _He'd_ not mind being—

"No." Firm and determined, that was Harry. Merlin, yes. He had balls of brass and Malfoy was nothing but trouble and bother.

"Yes," Draco echoed, all unknowing, and moved the caressing hand to his own thigh, fingertips smoothing finely woven fabric in a hypnotic fashion. "Harry."

The very way he uttered Harry's name was sinful; the arse _should_ be locked up, yes, he should. Harry would've liked to keep his righteous bum locked up permanently; chained to the headboard or some such, but—

Ron would say so. That Malfoy should be incarcerated, just on principle, though he was sort of coming round. _Slowly_. Even Hermione still had her doubts and she was the 'nice' one. The Auror candidates and rookies accepted Malfoy only at the whim of Harry's goodwill; the seniors in the force suffered him solely through the Minister's interference. Why, then, did Harry feel it was Draco always holding all the really ace Snap cards?

"What'll you do for me, then, as you're going to land us both in hot water again?" Harry asked, tipping his own chair back on its hind legs. He rocked, and tried to appear terribly at ease in his skin under Malfoy's keen inspection.

"Blow job," Malfoy replied, matter-of-factly, and Harry's chair legs did a little dance across the aged linoleum. "In the back stairwell this time, where we won't be caught."

"People still use that, Draco." Harry was adamant. No way was he being sucked off in the emergency stairwell. It was grimy and cold and he'd prefer his squeaky desk chair over that, thanks ever so. They both knew enough locking and silencing charms to guard an armoury, so why ever not?

"Not today," Malfoy was smug. "I've Charmed it."

"And why there?" Harry wanted to know. "Why not here or—or the flat? We've lunch break yet; we could Apparate from Rosie's 'round the corner and nobody'd know it."

"No, Harry," Malfoy shook his head and licked his dryish pink lips in that way he had that made Harry's cock take on a whole new life of its own. Which it did, right smart. "Can't wait, for one thing, and bloody Robards is on yet another of his witch hunts, popping his head down our hallway every other moment. I don't need another negative write-up in my file, arsewipe—one was more than enough."

"Hah!" Harry grinned. "What was it again? Piddling shite: 'indecent exposure' and 'disrespecting your workplace'? That's not _so_ bad, Draco—could've been far worse."

"Not for _you_, Golden Boy. You got off easy, as always," Malfoy sneered, and his mouth was especially snoggable that way, naturally. Merlin, but he was just bloody _fit_, Harry's partner. Harry blessed his particular stars and garters—and Draco's—for that singularly happy coincidence every damned day.

"I, on the other hand, had to write a four foot essay on the topic of proper workplace procedure regarding unauthorized sexual shenanigans and then apologize in person to Shacklebolt, you bastard. Told him it was just a one-off, because we were both under a great deal of pressure, simply to save your golden arse, you twat, and _you_—you only had your knuckles rapped by that twink Robards, if that. I swear, Harry, if the Minister tells me one more time 'Potter's simply sowing his wild oats, Malfoy; don't take it so seriously,' I'll bloody heave."

"Then you should just let me tell them, Draco, for once and for all—" Harry jumped in. He was always suggesting this and Draco was always cutting him off.

"Can't, Potty," Malfoy snapped. "Fraternization regulations, remember? Very strict, as _I _should know. We'd be _un_-partnered so fast your permanently unkempt head will spin and if you think I'm taking one single step out these ruddy doors without you at my back, or vice versa, you're sadly mistaken. I'll up and bugger off first and then where will you be, Mr. Auror?"

"Fucked, of course," Harry nodded. He saw the sense of Malfoy's argument; he just didn't have to like it. Too much pointless red tape and outmoded regulations, the Ministry had. Hermione had better hurry it up with her grand 'clean sweep' programme; Harry was more than tired of mucking about in dirty loos and Muggle cinemas. Besides, they owed him. He, of all people, should be able to have the partner he wanted, Merlin save him, and no guff about who it was or why Harry trusted him.

"So, yes, stairwell; three minutes, Harry," Draco nodded as if the matter were settled, rising from his manky old chair in exactly the manner he accomplished everything else: with style. He sauntered off in the direction of their office door, looking perfectly turned out, just as always, and perfectly untouchable because of it—the 'Ice Prince', indeed. But then, no else but Harry ever truly glimpsed the man beneath the robes, so they wouldn't know, would they? Harry thanked the kindly Fates for that little favor, too.

"Don't make me wait."

"Er—okay," Harry agreed, dubiously, "but I still don't think it's necessary, Draco. We could just pop off home in an hour."

"I said _I_ couldn't wait, remember, Harry?" Draco's mobile mouth quirked into that rueful half-grin Harry always swooned over. "Meant that, you wanker. You didn't half finish the job, this morning. 'M bloody blue, here. Can't concentrate worth a tinker's damn."

"Um," Harry flushed, remembering. "Yes, alright."

They'd overslept a crucial half-hour, and been late abed last night to start, and then Draco had spent all the time they usually spent to snag coffee and a pastry on the way in to work shagging Harry slowly but surely into the tiled wall of the flat's glassed-in shower. Harry'd lost his chance to shave properly because of that, and he knew he looked a trog under his Auror robes, socks mismatched and wearing yesterday's boxers, spelled hurriedly clean. Hadn't even gotten his usual reciprocation in, sod it. Draco _so_ loved a leisurely rimming in the early morning, after he'd taken the edge off, pounding Harry's bum to jelly. And Harry had absolutely no problem with that.

"Potter, Malfoy!" Robards knocked in his usual peremptory fashion and opened the door inwards without bothering to peer 'round it. Draco jumped backwards to avoid having his beak broken and Harry brought his chair legs level to the cracked floor with a hasty little crash.

"Sir?"

Harry attempted to come off as a responsible professional and not as though he hadn't just been discussing ways and means of spending his tea break getting sucked and likely rogered rough and ready on Auror premises. Draco simply bobbed his head in bland acknowledgement; he wasn't overly fond of Robards poking his nose into Harry's private life, nor of their boss's 'better than thou' attitude in general, especially as applied to him. Harry had said over and over he didn't mind Robards so much—had gotten pretty damned accustomed to misguided interference and static from the masses over the years, what with Skeeter and Dumbledore and the lot—but Draco fairly well abhorred the old codger. Better the Weasel's attitude of backing off and leaving well enough alone, he'd snapped, or Granger's 'live and let live' shtick—at least _she_ was civil and _Weasel_ wasn't a sodding perv over Harry—and always tightened his mouth when Harry tried to jolly him out of it.

"I'm sending you out, Potter—Malfoy," Robards was the type to allow gen to escape him in short, staccato bursts when in a hurry, and he always acted as though his underlings were torturing him to relieve him of it. "Incident of forced entry reported in the Alley—little old lady broke her bloody hip, getting her wand out of its holster—screamin' bloody murder—Crups and Poms and Poodles everywhere—pet groomer—two hundred Galleons—can't spare anyone else."

"Oh, brilliant—erm, certainly, sir."

Harry wasn't too pleased to be shoved off to some triplicate parchment-generating cockup right at break time and Draco was grimacing like an enraged banshee at the back of Robard's balding head. Harry knew Robards never addressed Draco directly if he could help it; it was always the great 'Harry Potter' who received his undivided attention. Draco flicked his fingers up in silent salute, likely cursing his immediate superior and the whole of the Ministry to perdition under his breath, Harry was sure. Didn't blame him.

Harry sighed heavily, mourning his blow job already. And there went any chance of a reasobable lunch, too, likely.

"Now, sir?" he asked, just to give Robards the option of acting like a decent human being, for once.

"Yes, _now_," Robards barked. "Crime doesn't wait, Potter!" He slammed out on a huff, sparing a last searing glare at Malfoy. Other than Draco's surname, Robards hadn't spared a civil word for him.

Malfoy and Potter stared at each other for a long moment as the door panel vibrated in its frame, the space of the small office between them. One of Draco's perfect eyebrows hitched up a tad.

"Are you…perhaps?" Harry inquired, his lips twitching faintly into the beginnings of what might've been a grin—or perhaps a smirk, by long association. Malfoy winked one of those pale eyes of his, quite, quite deliberately.

"Are _you_?" he returned, and cocked his head at that angle that Harry thought was just fucking sexy as all Hell. Gods! But he _wanted_ that sodding blow job! Blast Robards and his toxic dislike of Draco. That shite was getting in the way of their jobs.

Harry angled his chin up and tipped his chair off-balance again, green eyes gone vague for a brief moment. Coming quickly to some point of resolution, he stared at his partner dead on for a second time, green and grey sending mutual sparks.

"Er—wasn't there?" he asked, shrugging, and Malfoy replied instantly, clearly very pleased on the one hand, though there might've been the slightest shadow of disapprobation hovering 'round the edges of his well-cut mouth. "…Remember?"

"Absolutely," Draco grinned, all Kneazle got the cream and licking whiskers. "File room, still sitting atop the one stack, likely. I'll just—give me five minutes, Harry; no, not even. Three. You know where you'll find me."

He looked back just the once as he was closing the door.

"I hope you realize what you're doing, Potter."

Harry definitely smirked that time, and his eyes were a deep, dark jade that spelt mischief in the making. Ron would've shuddered at it, as well as all it might lead to, but then Draco was still on sufferance with him, even now.

*

"Oh, gods—oh, gods, _Harry_!"

Draco shouted as he found his release, back arched and fingers dug deep into Harry's thighs.

"Harry, Harry!" he moaned, twitching as if he was the mercy of St. Vitus Dance, but in a good way. "_Fuck_, Harry!"

His partner, fully relaxed and eyelids drooping lazily with contentment, relished both the strength of Draco's grip and the way those grey eyes strained startled and staring and then closed tight-shut at the very moment of coming, lashes bushy with perspiration, that same perspiration beading down Draco's throat and thighs. He adored every flinch and shiver coursing through the Nordic god who ramped triumphant above him, knees locked in place as he cried out and tailored trousers sagging 'round his clenched, well-shaped arse as he bucked forward that one final time. It was literally beautiful, Harry thought, to have all that before him—within him—and the absolute, most brilliant thing was, he could have it forever, for all the rest of his days.

Harry cocked a wary ear in the direction of the corridor as a slowly collapsing Draco crushed him into the blotter; he could make out his boss's wheedling, whinging tones, drawing closer—the voice Robards only ever used with the Minister—and the steady pace of two sets of encroaching male feet, one significantly heaver than the other. Harry blinked reptilian fashion for a long, thoughtful moment and then silently reaffirmed his determination to allow events to unfold as presented.

Now, after all, was as good a time to make a stand as any, and really, he was damned if he'd miss his lunch again just for Robards' missish fits. Aurors did not live by Ministry coffee alone.

"—and so it's my very strong recommendation, sir, that we discharge Malfoy from his position in the department forthwith," Robards was saying, "if not from the Ministry entirely. I simply can't trust him—just look where he's sprung from—Death Eaters, all, every one of that line, the Malfoys—bad blood _will_ tell, I say, all 'round. No, Minister," Harry's boss went on, as Shacklebolt's familiar rumble was heard, "I've been keeping a very strict eye on Malfoy, all along. He's nothing but trouble simply building up to strike and, worse yet, he's finagled his way in far too tight with our Harry for us to blindly ignore the threat," Robards was saying earnestly to Shacklebolt's skeptical face when he opened his office door, all unaware. "I can't say what Harry sees in him—he's a right menace, sir, to all honest citizens; a born criminal, if ever there was one—you can tell it just by looking, sir—sneaky, conniving scum he is. Don't know how he ever managed to be acquitted—bribes, I suppose;. They say he spied for us, but I can't sleep nights what with worrying about what'll happen if I let this situation go on much longer—exceptionally dangerous, it is. _He_ is. He really _must_ be let go, sir."

Harry was rather glad Draco likely hadn't taken in all that poisonous shite Robards was spouting, heaped half-senseless as he was across Harry's bared chest, utterly spent. They'd managed both the blow job _and_ the rogering in record time, but hadn't enough left over for the very belated rimming—sod it, Harry _would_ be cursed if he'd allow Robards to chivy them into missing out on a perfectly sane regulation break only for the sake of a small-change repeat offender. Especially a know-nothing case that could be handled by a sodding First Year Trainee, with his wand fucking tied behind his back.

No, Harry remarked to his slightly squirmy conscious, it was well past time for him to put a little of his unwanted influence to good use. He was tired of being taken advantage by Robards and if he didn't do something soon, poor Malfoy would fucking snap.

"Wha-wha-_what __**are**__ you_ _**doing**_!!?" Robards shrieked like a shocked Victorian virgin, catching sight of his sullied desk and its partially nude, blissed-out occupants at last. The stench of sex permeating his office was potent, overwhelming even the musty odour of used parchment and old ink, floor wax and sweat.

"_Malfoy_! You friggin' _**pimple**_! You bloody fuck! How _**dare**_ you!?" Draco's boss roared, segueing instantly into that same young lady's enraged Victorian Papa, drawing himself up almost to tiptoe, wand aquiver, and immediately followed his outburst by ordering harshly: "Malfoy! Remove yourself from Potter's person _**this instant**_!"

Kingsley Shacklebolt's square jaw dropped ever so slightly—discovering two young Aurors mere seconds post-shag on their superior's work surface was not, as of yet, a common enough occurrence in the Ministry to develop the necessary air of _sangfroid_ all Ministry superiors simply _must_ cultivate in any situation, regardless—and it hung in that manner for the full count of three seconds, partially exposing a lovely set of healthy teeth, till he shut it with a decisive snap, only to open it again immediately and say, "Now, _Harry_—"

"Kingsley," Harry grinned from his prone position, pinned under Draco, and then, remembering his manners, nodded politely. "Good morning, Minister. Lovely to see you again."

Harry's glittering eyes moved on to the apoplectic figure of Robards, who was literally hopping about his office in the beginnings of a mad fit of sorts, likely working himself up to a typhoon of a tirade, his wand trained dead-set on the centre of Malfoy's incredibly relaxed spinal cord. Harry quite deliberately allowed one of his own hands to come to rest there, just above the point where Malfoy's loose shirttails hung down over the cheeks of his half-exposed arse, and muttered a word or two concerning protection against stray hexes, under his breath.

But he said nothing else, merely allowing Robards' rope to spin out.

"You bloody _fucking _Death Eater _**bastard**_," Robards was screaming at the supine Malfoy all the while, teetering on tiptoe and gnashing. "I_—_I'll have your _hide_ for this! Azkaban'll be too _good _for you, Malfoy! You're _**dead**_—fucking _**Crucio'd**_—d'ya _**hear**_ me?!"

"But, sir," Harry finally interjected, in a tone that could only be described as 'sensible', nay, 'reasonable', even. "We were only practicing the cardinal rule of Auroring, as per the teachings of our revered Mr. Moody: 'C_onstant vigilance!'_"

That set the Kneazle amongst the pigeons nicely. Robards went nicely incoherent.

Roused finally by the incessant, swelling, largely incomprehensible harangue and the oft-repeated threats of bodily injury and malfeasance, Malfoy blearily cocked one eye at the developing situation and issued an inaudible grumble. Only Harry heard him mumbling, "_Now _I'm for it, prat. Thanks to you."

Harry shifted his protective hand, patting his partner companionably on the one shoulder, and Draco raised his head at last, shaking it irritably at Robards' purpling face and trembling wand in precisely the manner of a prized stallion confronted with a pesky stablehand right after topping a particularly frisky mare. Uttering a wordless sound of disgust at the intrusion, he lifted himself up and off Harry with an elegant flex of forearms, unclasped shirtsleeves flapping. There was an audible and slightly inelegant popping sound as he disengaged himself fully from Harry's reddened, lube-shiny arse. His partner sighed heavily his displeasure over the loss, clearly bereft.

Shacklebolt winced nearly audibly at both the incomparable view of their privates and the attendant sound effects and instantly glanced elsewhere, displaying a deeply ingrained courtesy, apparently striving to offer the two Aurors a modicum of privacy, even where there was none. Chief Auror Robards, alternatively, went from screaming puce to dead white in a horrified blink and opened his pursed lips reflexively to spout yet more venom, but he was rendered temporarily speechless, instead, by the opaque smears strewn over his prized Auror Potter's muscled thighs.

It was unmistakably Malfoy's spunk that decorated them, as well as various bits of Robards' own desk, stray quills and the pile of parchments in his 'In' box. The man's stunned eyes fled that horrifying revelation in a half-a-heartbeat and finally focused quite accidentally on the spent dicks of his two subordinates, dangling and most definitely smeared with recent use. The frog-belly hue of his gobsmacked face shaded abruptly into a remarkable approximation of Slytherin green.

"Dis—Pot—Dea—Har—_**gah**_!" he gabbled, once more making close acquaintance with incoherency, but Draco had evidently decided it was more than time to speak up.

"You wouldn't want us rushing off pell-mell without swotting up first, would you, sir?" Malfoy inquired of his gawping superior urbanely, briskly waving a quick hand over his privates to cleanse them. He stood, straight and tall and inimitably a Malfoy, even as Robards squawked at his gesture like an enraged macaw, jabbing his wildly trembling wand out as if to AK his junior right then and there, and began spitting out invective again as if he'd never ceased, wand dangerously close to targeting the Malfoy family jewels.

"I'm sure you'll agree that's not at all the best practise, sir, to heedlessly hope to make an arrest without reviewing the existing Auror files first," Malfoy continued on calmly, hiking up his trousers and tucking his shirt points in, inexorable over the steady steam vent hiss of Robards' vituperation. "Mr. Moody always told us we collect information for a reason, sir."

He smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt.

"It's why they exist, yes?" Malfoy clasped his cufflinks together, one by one, and secured them. "After all, Mr. Robards, _abyssus abyssum invocate_. Far too foolhardy a move, even for the rawest recruits. I believe Mr. Moody often mentioned the same in his counsels."

"_**Bastard**_-bastard-_**bastard**_-Death-Eating-_**scum sucking**_-foul mouthed-_**rubbish**_!" Robards had trotted past gibberish to actual foaming whilst Malfoy occupied himself fastening his flies, spittley bits forming at the edges of his mouth, and was well off his head. If anyone in the department wasn't already aware there was a major commotion being enacted in the Auror Head's office, they certainly were once their Head upped the volume of his squall of abuse to a squeaky, off-pitch roar.

"I'll have your fucking bollocks for_**bookends**_, Malfoy!" he shrieked, even as the impassive Minister made a few sundry soothing noises, his dark eyes bright and intent on Robards' rage-riddled features. Harry shifted again, as did Draco, the two of them subtly drawing closer together as their Chief unveiled his _coup de grace_:

"You're fucking _**fired**_, you evil bastard! D'you hear **me**?! _**Fired**_!! **Now**! _**Get out**_!"

"Now, Gawain," Shacklebolt interjected, "let's not be hasty." He laid a steadying hand on the Auror Chief's trembling shoulder, taking that opportunity to force the man's wildly swaying wand arm all the way down, thus removing the immediate threat of death or emasculation from young Malfoy's person.

Draco drew himself to his fullest height under Robards' apparently unstoppable barrage, looming impressively even though still slightly mussed about the edges, and raised his pointy Malfoy chin to its highest possible level of elevation. He stared down flared nostrils at his Chief as if the insanely angry man were naught but an unwanted grub mucking about in his lettuce.

Harry held his breath, just a bit, and bit his lower lip. Events were heating up nicely.

"Do _I _understand _you_, sir, to mean that you intend to show me the door merely for competently proceeding with _my job_? Without recompense, prior written warning or a peer review?"

The Malfoy Voice, as Harry knew, could be sharper than any serpent's tongue, more deadly cutting than any assassin's blade.

"_Do_ you mean to tell _me_, sir, that this is how you routinely run this august department—by simple_ fiat_? You'll pardon me, Mr. Robards, I'm sure—I was not aware nor informed the office of the Head Auror was by internal decree an autocracy. You, too, _are_ accountable, _sir_, as are we all."

A pregnant silence greeted that: Robards gaping in speechless, mottle-faced fury, Kingsley tapping his chin very slowly with his wand point, Harry hiding a pleased smirk behind one hand, and Draco busily retying his tie.

"Quite so," Harry observed peaceably, at last.

*

Harry, now that Draco's larger, heavier person had been so abruptly—and graphically—removed, sat up fully on the edge of Robards' desk, though he never once shifted his narrowed verdant gaze from his superior. With a little impudent wiggle, he eased a slightly stained manila file out from under his sticky bum. He thrust it out with the hand that wasn't hovering a millimeter above the wand lying carelessly at the ready on the blotter beside him, being apparently of the opinion it was more than prudent at this point to insinuate a sampling of professional behaviour into what was rapidly developing into a excruciatingly awful farce.

The silence descended once more. Malfoy adjusted his collar.

Shacklebolt took the folder from Harry with nary a grimace of distaste, after it was made quite clear that Robards wasn't touching the thing with a barge pole. Harry, meanwhile, casually shrugged his own rumpled shirt back on, to all intents and purposes singularly unaffected by the rumpus Robards had created. That the homophobic bastard was gagged at the moment was only due to shock at Malfoy's well-founded accusation; it was true, though, every word, and Robards knew it.

Indeed, Shacklebolt knew it, and that was, by far, the more salient fact.

"That particular file, sirs," Harry barrelled on brightly, forging forward through the murky atmosphere with a brilliant determination. He'd a few salient points of his own to impart, after all, and time was awasting.

"That file contains all the information you'll be needing for the warrant. Fortunately, my partner Draco here remembered this one from the archives and we dusted it off, Chief Robards, Minister. You'll find that's your perp for the dog groomer's—_and_ the three other unsolved hits on Knockturn Alley businesses from last month. Prissy Featherweight, she goes by, and sometimes Leslie LaFarge; surely you remember: the 'little old lady' you mentioned, Mr. Robards?"

At the sound of his name, Robards snapped his head sharply in Harry's direction, much the way a snake does when it spies a juicy new morsel hieing closer to its sun-warmed rock. He licked his lips and Malfoy spared him a glare that could maim at twenty paces.

"Repeat offender, Prissy is," Harry went on, as if making a formal report partially in the buff happened daily in the Aurors, "and has a rap sheet a league long on parchment. All her crimes carry exactly the same marque, every one. Wouldn't be at all surprised if that robbery at Fortesque's three months ago can't be dumped at her doorstep as well."

"And Ms. Featherweight's not budging an inch before she can be arrested, Mr. Robards, Minister—she's still safely at St. Mungo's, laid up with that hip of hers," Harry's partner drawled, taking up Harry's narrative with perfect timing, whilst settling his Auror robes into creaseless perfection. "Won't be released for another three days, on account of her advancing years. Ergo, no real hurry on our part. Any Auror can retain her for questioning at their leisure. We've simply to alert her Healer and the staff."

Malfoy waved his hand languidly, causing just such a memo to appear. At a nod, it zipped off through the door, winging its way to the Ministry Owlry.

"Which I've just now done."

The Minister appeared to ponder heavily for a moment, and then he smiled, a long, slow indication of utter satisfaction, and met Harry's knowing gaze with one of his own.

"You-you-_**you wastral**_! Skiving off with a _**memo**_!" Robards had started up again, with renewed energy. He seemed to have the used the break for nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to gather more salvos for firing at his pet peeve, Malfoy.

"How _dare _you attempt to cover up your own incompetence by taking advantage of our Harry, here? How _**dare**_you?! You scoundrel!"

Their erstwhile Chief was not in any way appeased by Harry and Draco's combined show of smart-headed reasoning, but at least he'd advanced to forming full sentences. Not that his latest accusations were in any pertinent to the case Harry and Draco presented against the absent and no doubt entirely unrepentant Madame Featherweight. Far from it.

"Malfoy!" Robards shouted, jetting off on a new tack he'd only barely touched upon prior: Harry's sanctity.

"You'll have the common **decency** to take your fucking_** arse**_ out of this office before I _**curse **_you, you bleeding _**traitor**_! And take your foul little mitts off **our** Harry, you _**filthy cur**_—he's far too good for the likes of _**you**_! He's a Hero! A Treasure! It's a bloody **disgrace**, it is, you touching him like that!" Robards hissed, looking quite ill at the very idea. "You're _soiling_ him! I'll not _**have **_it! I'll not have you _**near**_him! Get _**out**_, I say—_**GET OUT**_!"

Draco, having finished setting himself fully to rights, brushed off Robards' frenzied nonsensical orders as if they were so much unsightly dandruff. Kingsley Shacklebolt slid his gleaming gaze from Harry to Draco and examined his most troublesome young Auror with silent and careful intensity as the young man turned to blithely apply his sartorial skills to his partner, taking his time carefully buttoning Harry's rumpled shirt up, and tucking it in, zipping his flies, smoothing the knife-sharp crease back into his regulation trouser legs and rethreading his worn leather belt through its loops. All of this left Robards white-knuckled and so angry, he literally couldn't catch his breath.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! _**Stop**_! Stop that _this instant_!" Robards demanded, but no one paid him heed, not even the Minister.

Instead, Harry grinned fondly at his partner's fussing and shared a soft, searching glance with him that effectively blocked both the Minster and Robards out entirely, if not the whole world for that one long, intense moment. When Draco finally had his lover spiffed to his personal satisfaction, Harry ran a hand through his partner's humidity-kinked hair, smoothing a last damp curl into place.

"_**ARRRRGGGHHH**_! _Harry_!" Robards reaction was the cry of a tortured soul.

"Now, Mr. Robards," and with that, Harry did finally turn the bulk of his attention in his addled Chief's direction, sliding off the disturbed desktop with athletic ease, and pivoting to include Kingsley in on the conversation, as well, "and Minister, too, as you're here, sir, and witnessing this. Not to bother you unduly with personal matters, Minister, but as this latest case is essentially handled, excepting the actual arrest, you'll understand when I ask you, Mr. Robards, to rethink your somewhat hasty response concerning our requested hols. Draco and I each have a full month's worth due and I'm certain _I_, for one, could use a bit of a break from this office."

Though he seemed entirely comfortable, leaning back against the edge of Robards' desk as if he were the one who owned it and not Scrimgour's appointee, Harry still allowed his fingertips to play meaningfully across the wand end currently poking out from his arm holster. Close beside him, and perhaps a little closer than strictly professional, Draco propped a spare hand on the soggy leather blotter and twisted his lips into an empty little grimace that may've been meant to be blandly courteous, but was in fact merely a way to mask his utter disdain.

Robards, who'd seemed a fair way to calming once more as he listened to Harry, despite Malfoy's continued presence, instantly gibbered at Malfoy's sneer.

"Take your filthy, dirty paws off my things, you _scum_! Miscreant! _Sodomist_! _**Death Eater**_!"

"As I'm sure you're aware, there's very little going on here, Mr. Robards," Harry talked on undeterred, his voice mild and deceptively unassuming, as if his Chief weren't in process of disintegrating mentally right before his very eyes.

Draco Malfoy merely lounged, a very dangerous air about him.

"It's our slow period, August is," Harry reminded them all, "and we've had nothing of significance across our desks for a sen'night now—and I don't believe I can honestly summon up a single pressing nor worthy reason why Draco and I can't both be absent for a well-earned vacation—_at the same time, sir_."

The emphasis was most deliberate; it inflamed the walking sore that was the Head Auror into bursting out yet again.

"Malfoy is _**fired**_, Harry!" Robards bit out. He seemed to be enjoying enunciating every syllable, as if that caused him to feel more powerful. "Fired, f_ired_, **fired! **_History,_ he is, that slimy bastard Blast-Ended Skrewt! That pox on Wizarding folk—that despoiler! And he'll not find another post again, _not_ in this town, _not_ in this _lifetime_, **not** if _I've _anything to say to it!"

There was that disgusting saliva again, forming little foamy off-white puffs at the corners of Robards' mouth, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot and rolling about like pinpoint marbles in his balding, shiny pate. He'd begun to giggle a bit as he pointed a palsied hand at Draco, who resembled nothing so much as a large feline, pale eyes narrowed and mouth folded mum as Punch.

"Don't you understand the danger you're in, Harry—_dear_ Harry?!" Robards pleaded. "He'll out and out murder you, Harry, as soon as look at you! He _will_! It _can't_ be allowed! They're all alike--Malfoys!" the older man blustered, working up yet another head of steam. He rubbed his wand all the while, in an oily, skeevy motion that raised the instinctive hackles of the other three men in the room.

Minister Shacklebolt drew a hard, sharp breath, but said nothing.

"All these Death Eaters, all about us!—fired, I say!—fraternizing—non-consensual—_**sexually**__**assaulting an Auror**_!—_death's_ too good, too good!" Robards sang, capering from foot to foot and tapping his wand point through the air in time to whatever it was only he heard.

"Despicable Death Eaters, don't you know, Harry?" He winked, and sounded perfectly sane for the odd moment, and it was a vile mockery of the companionable action of a respectable mentor and Chief.

"_**Disrespectful Death Eaters**_!"

Robards finished his odd chant with a sudden, triumphant blare, and beyond the door could be clearly be heard the ominous rustle of a mass of extremely avid Aurors—murmuring, muttering—not unnaturally drawn like ants to honey by the goings on in the centre office.

"No, Gawain, he isn't," Shacklebolt interrupted firmly, stepping closer. "Not at all."

The large brown hand returned, stern on Robards nape, quelling the man into a jittery standstill. Harry was fairly sure Kingsley cast a silent Calming Charm, as well. Certainly he would've, had he been at all interested in achieving 'calm'.

"I, for one," Shacklebolt continued, over Robards whimpering, "remember our dear old Prissy very well, now that I think on it. She's at large, I know; never booked her on a single charge that would stick, and this certainly matches her usual methods. They're dead on with this conclusion, Gawaine, Malfoy and Harry, and we more experienced Aurors should've seen that ourselves ages ago. Further, they're quite correct: Prissy _is_ a small-time offender. It's not reasonable to send Aurors of this level after her—or anyone nicking Galleons from a pet groomer's—when that's the bread-and-butter of our trainees. A waste of resources, Gawaine, and an error in personnel management. And finally, for the record, Malfoy worked for our side—or rather, for Harry—nearly the entirety of the war. He has been duly acquitted by the Wizengamot of any wrongdoings committed whilst in the service of the Order. That information is in his employee file and is certainly accessible to you, Gawaine, as Head. Too, if what we just inadvertently witnessed here was in any way _non_-consensual, I'll eat my own wand, with chutney. Harry's said not a single word about being 'sexually assaulted', Gawaine, and it certainly seemed quite 'consensual' to me_._"

"One more point, Mr. Robards. I don't believe," Harry jumped right in, but addressed himself solely to his superior in a tone that was so frigid as to be sub-zero and flavoured with a nearly palpable steely distaste, "that I've _ever_ once given you permission to use my given name or be overly familiar in any way. Nor would I. _That _pleasure, Mr. Robards, is reserved for those I actually trust. Our relationship, such as it is, is purely on the professional level."

"That doesn't matter!" Robards clenched his hands tightly into fists, and raised his wand again, having demonstrably shed all inhibition, along with his right mind. "Harry! _Harry_! He's a _Death Eater_—don't you see? Malfoy—a bloody _**Death Eater**_! You can't get 'round it, Harry! You can't make excuses for him simply because he—he—he'll _**sully **_you, Harry! You simply _must_ believe me—he's dirty!"

At the sight of his beloved pet hero's stony face, Robards spun on a heel to appeal next to Shacklebolt, nervous hands uncurling spasmodically and thrust out wide in an effort to regain his superior's ear—his almighty stamp of approval.

"He's going to _kill_ Harry, Minister!" Robards ranted. "_Our_ Harry—that-that-that **scum** touched him—_**touched him**_! Stuck his ruddy cock in him, just as you please! We watched it! We saw! It's—it's bloody _sick_!"

A spray of saliva began dripping down his chin; his fingers twisted tighter, tighter round his wand, till they looked as though they'd snap the brittle wood and perhaps some small bones as well. Robards leant forward, practically bowing down before the Minister, a maddened courtier demanding a boon.

Kingsley remained impassive; Potter and Malfoy drew closer together, wands very much at the ready.

"Men—Aurors—Malfoy shouldn't touch him," the Chief pronounced, stuttering. "Malfoy should be Kissed for what he just did—_**Kissed**_, I say! I_ know_ it—I've known it all along! He's ill, don't you know—don't you see? He's perverted; a Death Eater; a criminal—Harry would never, _ever_—Malfoy _must_ be _**punished**_!"

With a lightening swivel on toepoint, Robards swung his body, and aimed straight at Malfoy, a sniper caught out in broad daylight, a zealot ready to do anything for his 'cause'.

"_Incarc_—!" he shouted.

"Protego!"

Harry's counterspell sliced the beginnings of the magical ropes off cleanly, midway through the wave of Robards' maddened wand. They fell about Draco's feet, nubs still sizzling.

"Confundus!" Harry's second incantation sent Robards wavering about on uncertain legs, his eyes spinning in their sockets. He shook his wand back and forth, sweeping it from target to target. But Harry was younger, and spryer, and well-used to madmen and their Hades-given powers.

"Expelliarmus! Minister," Harry shouted, "_duck_!"

"Flipendo! Accio Robard's wand!" Draco nipped in, deftly waving a forefinger, wandless magic being his own particular specialty. He'd some experience with raving lunatics, as well.

The Head Auror's weapon whizzed out of his grasping fingers, slick with transferred sweat.

"_Silencio_," Draco snarled at the infuriated Wizard, still gamely struggling to send another curse in their direction.

"Petrificus totalus!" ex-Auror Shacklebolt called out, finishing the job neatly.

Scrimgour's most favoured Auror—his pride and his pet—was disarmed almost before he realized it, left dazed and tottering in place with his next hex frozen forever on his thin foam-flecked lips, his prized wand in the possession of Draco Malfoy.

For another long moment, there was a quite heavy silence in the Head Auror's office, marked only by Robards' furious panting breaths and muted attempts to free himself. Draco and Harry used the pause to do a quick look-see on each other, checking for stray spell-damage.

"You alright, Kingsley?" Harry asked, breaking their silence finally and focusing on the much larger person of the Minister. Draco also turned to him, a dark blond brow angled up in polite enquiry.

"Yes, thank you, Harry, Malfoy," Kingsley returned, calm and collected, as befits a Minister of Magic. "Quite alright."

The imposing ex-Auror looked to Gawaine Robards, or what had been Robards, and shook his head sadly.

"Gawain," Shacklebolt's deep voice quickly lent an air of false calm to the scene. "I'm of the considered opinion that perhaps it's _you _who requires the holiday. An extended one, I believe. But we'll discuss the details of that later, at St. Mungo's, after your evaluation."

"And ours, Minister?" Harry was quick to inquire from the refuge of Malfoy's arm. Draco had snagged his partner and tucked him snug against his long torso with one well-kept hand, and had his wand steady in the other, trained on Robards.

Malfoy's grey glare was both as deadly as a cobra's and as fiercely territorial as its fabled archenemy, the mongoose, and the Minister spared a quick grimace for any poor sod who might be so foolish as to fancy sticking himself between Harry and Malfoy without gaining written permission first. But indeed—first things first, Kingsley decided. The other, lesser members of the department were actively jostling at the partially open door, their noisy rabble only barely held in check by the Minister's visibly august presence and bulk.

"'Ours', Harry?" he questioned, cocking an eyebrow at his young friend and smoothly ignoring the ad hoc gathering with all the _sangfroid_ he _did _have at his disposal, which was considerable—and now augmented by additional experience.

"Much as I hate to say it, Gawain here does indeed have one valid objection. Fraternization of any sort between Aurors is strictly prohibited. This includes engaging in those activities in the office."

"Even if they're newly married, Minister? And the customary month-long period of a honeymoon was denied by nothing more than spite, red tape and a ridiculously outmoded internal bureaucracy?" Harry shot back. "That's hardly fair, nor forward-thinking—nor is it in any way legal. There's more than enough established precedent, sir, for married Aurors to work as partners. The Longbottoms, for one, were an excellent Auror team before Mrs. Longbottom had our Nev; the Prewitts, for another—"

"_**Married**_!?" Shacklebolt gasped. "What, Harry—_Malfoy_? Really? When did that happen?"

"You'll be the first to officially congratulate us, sir," Malfoy nodded jovially at the Minister, a sparkle in his clear grey gaze for the very first time since his ex-boss and Shacklebolt burst into the office, though it didn't prevent him from keeping a watchful eye still peeled on the futilely twitching former Head. "Or _me_, actually, since somehow I've managed to capture for my own a diamond of the very first water. Believe me, I am duly honored by this turn of events."

"Oh, you," Harry blushed like a schoolboy, and shoved Draco hard in the solar plexus. "Shut it, git—you're bloody embarrassing to be around!"

"Oof!" Draco gasped, and glared. "Minx!"

"So you have, Malfoy," the Minister grinned as well, ignoring the tiny spat between newlyweds taking place before him, much as he'd ignore their shagging, "so you have. Above rubies, Harry is. A credit. Good on you both!"

Kingsley's teeth were a white slash across his still surprised features, and he stuck a large hand out immediately, enveloping first Draco's and then Harry's with a rumbling chuckle and shaking firmly with a large, dry, palm.

"By all that's wonderful! Really!" he went on, apparently quite bemused by the news. "Well, _I_ am most pleased to be the first to wish you well, Mr. Malfoy--Harry. And also, Harry, I do believe that does change things, yes. In your favour, naturally."

"Indeed, sir," Harry agreed, and treated Kingsley with a wide, happy smile, his green eyes alight with a glad glow very few of the avid Aurors nosing 'round the door had ever the pleasure to view. "My whole life, thankfully."

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

**HD 'It's An Ill Wind…" Part 2**

At that same office doorway, the other Aurors murmured and jostled behind the first row of rapt audience members, a few of them smiling with shared pleasure at what seemed the culminating act of a fine Shawsian farce being played out before them, a certain few others frowning for one reason or another—Harry noted those for future observation—but all understandably quite wound up by the sight of their ex-Head Auror in a body-bind and the Aurors Malfoy and Potter in what, sure as shite, was an unmistakably fond embrace, and then going on to shake hands and make nice with a smiling Minister.

The word 'marriage' being bandied about only fomented the growing tumult. Behind them loomed a yet larger group—the younger ones, shuffling for place, most still unenlightened as the details of the drama currently playing itself out in their Head's office, but vastly curious. A few Admin personnel orbited erratically, trailing after gossip like bloodhounds on caffeine.

"Gentlemen," Kingsley swiveled on a booted heel and stared the front line down till they were deathly quiet, "and ladies of the Auror department."

His imposing height and carrying voice were a definite advantage in crowd management. He took a breath, preparing for an _ex tempore_ speech.

"As I'm certain you're aware, the Ministry has been reviewing the inner workings of each department carefully in an effort to affect positive change, moving forward. It has come to our attention—and this unfortunate incident merely supports our decision—that Head Auror Robards here is eligible for a well-earned retirement. Effective _immediately_."

The noise of many voices returned, swelling to a raucous crescendo. Gawain Robards might've been a fine Auror once upon a time, but nearly unlimited power under Scrimgour had had an unfortunate cumulative effect. Not one of the Aurors gathered, to a man or a woman, was particularly sorry to see him go. That revelation, however, was immediately overshadowed by immediate speculation on who was to replace him. This department, of all of them, simply could not run without a Head in place.

Kingsley, ever aware of the efficacy of the iron, struck whilst it was red-hot.

"You'll no doubt join me in congratulating young Mr. Harry Potter here, in his new position as Head Auror," and the other men and women cheered wildly at that, for Harry was always an odds-on favorite, as well as a recognized National Treasure, "and—_and_," the Minister repeated, till all eyes were back on him once again and there was quiet, "his just-now acknowledged partner in both work and daily life, Mr. Draco Malfoy—a quite talented Auror himself."

The cheers and 'Huzzahs!" repeated, loud enough to drown out any residual grumbles, and Aurors poured into the office of ex-Head Robards like ants on honey, chattering a mile a minute and guffawing uproariously at various randy jokes and insinuations, handily slapping both young men on their backs and other available bits. Harry winked inconspicuously at Draco in the commotion, and cleared his throat in an official manner after a moment of hubbub.

"Ah-_hem_! My sincere thanks, Minister, and to all the rest of you lot, too, for the honour. I look forward to working closely with you all, ladies and gentlemen of our fine Auror department—in one month's time, as Draco and I have yet to have our honeymoon."

Gasps were heard, as those in the farther reaches clued in on that undying whisper of marriage and reacted—again, mostly favourably, as Harry could be trusted, even if Draco was not.

"Mr. Weasley! Ronald Weasley!" Harry called out, over the latest round of noise, catching a glimpse of the bright ginger head of his best mate bobbing far back in the madding crowd.

"If you'll just step into my brand new office, Ron?" Harry invited. The Minister turned a tiny chuckle into a cough and the nearest Aurors stifled their chortling and catcalls behind hands, mindful of him still lingering amongst their close-knit group.

"Due for a thorough turn out, I'd say," Draco muttered, casting a dissatisfied glare round at the dust and old honours decorating the walls. "It's disgusting in here, Potter—the stairwell would've been miles better."

"Ponce," Harry sent him a glance, but he nodded discreetly, nonetheless. He agreed—it was filthy—and the Ministry elves had likely felt Robards was a nutter, too, and had given him wide berth.

With a little scuffling and shoving and some delay, Ron managed to find his way forward through the muttering, chattering crowd. He eased across the doorsill, instantly taking up a guard-point position at Robards' left side, and motioned Seamus Finnegan—his assigned partner—to fall in smartly to the right.

Ron gulped, and swallowed hard, confronted finally by the newest—youngest ever, naturally--Head Auror, and his excited flush heightened even further, an attractive clash with his hair.

"Harr—_Mister Potter_, sir, R-Ronald Weasley, at your service," he managed finally, after opening and shutting his mouth a few times in vain attempts to come up with something appropriate to say to one's best friend, and now one's Boss. He managed, but still stuttered just a wee bit from not-terribly-well stifled excitement and what with keeping his face even mildly bland, as was professional.

This clearly required enormous effort; Ron's voice squeaked and the grin that insisted on blooming nearly overwhelmed his freckles, even so.

"And it's a right pleasure for us all to see this at last, Harry—_sir_, if you _don't_ mind my saying so. No more than you deserve, Har—_Chief_."

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" roared the Aurors, in agreement. "Pot-_ter_! Pot-_ter_! Pot-ter!" they chanted, raising yet another fuss.

Ron used Sonorous, too, simply to be heard. Seamus, choosing mime over shouting, sketched a merry little bow, complete with a few lewd hand gestures for Malfoy's sake, but he kept his trap shut even as the crowd quieted, as a mid-level Auror should do in the presence of his brand new Head.

"'Harry', Ron," the ginger-topped Auror was advised firmly, as Harry stuck his hand out for an official greeting. "Just plain old 'Harry', just as always. The more things change, mate, the more things stay the same, right?"

"Er—r-right. Yeah…_yes_!" a startled Ron replied, looking very pleased by this development indeed. Nodding happily at Harry, he still cast a suspicious eye in Draco's direction. His Hogwarts-era tormenter instantly curled a mocking lip at Ron and held his now formally acknowledged spouse even more firmly, visibly staking his claim.

"And whose idea was this one?" Harry's best mate went on to inquire in a very discreet undertone, low enough that the Minster and the crowd of his co-workers couldn't possibly overhear.

"_Yours_, you wanker?" He glared at Malfoy, who merely shook his blond head in response, nodding over at his partner.

"Not _me_," Draco murmured. "All Potty's fault, this. As usual."

"Oh, come _on_, Malfoy!" Ron took offense at that. "I know how you do like to make a show, you twat!" Ron went on, suspicion ripe in his taunt. "You've got to have had a hand in this somehow! I can't believe Harry just offered up his arse in Robards' office of his own free will!"

"Ron!" Harry was patently shocked, though his green eyes glinted slyly.

"Truly, Weasel, this was all Harry's idea," Draco retorted, now openly grinning at the discomfited redhead. "Always Harry, you know, in these situations—I just get dragged along on his coattails."

Draco folded his lips primly and looked terribly innocent, blinking at Harry's best friend in the spirit of a young Dickensian hero, falsely accused of stealing loaves in the market.

"Truly, I never did nothin' to nobody, I swear, Mr. Auror Weasley—not that I didn't instantly agree to from the start," he smirked, at the very end, ruining his angelic mask.

Ron huffed and shot Harry a telling look, one that clearly said 'Didn't I say he was trouble?'

And Harry sent Draco a lightning glance that practically sizzled, and spoke of a million things, not one of them meant for public consumption, and then began to laugh aloud in a way he almost never did in the office, not in these last grim months, what with Robards always sneaking about, spying on him. Ron's eyes widened at it, even as Harry turned back to him, still snorting a bit, a wicked, wicked light in his remarkably green eyes.

"Ron—_Mister_ Weasley," Harry touched his throat and got on with business, in his new 'official voice', "it is my quite honest pleasure to offer you the appointment as _Pro Tem_ Head in my _very _shortly-to-begin absence—starting this afternoon, that is," a whole gang of Hogwarts graduates began to snicker loudly near the back of the crowd, possibly at the implications of Harry Potter tackling with vigour the problem of seriously delayed honeymoon, "and under the guidance of Senior Aurors Proudfoot and Williamson. Subject to the Minister's approval, of course."

Here Harry looked to Kingsley, who simply nodded and glinted his teeth even more whitely, visibly enjoying the much brightened atmosphere in the Department. The cloud of Robards' incipient madness was already well on its way to dissipating.

"I can't think of anyone who'd be better at it, Ron," Harry went on. 'Would you do me the favour?"

"Well—well—well—_yeah_!"

Ron clearly hadn't expected to be catapulted abruptly into power, at least not this particular afternoon, but it didn't stop his teeth from splitting his face nearly in half in a dazzling, contagious smile, one he absolutely couldn't control this time. On the other side of the struck-still Robards, Seamus Finnegan was practically clogging in place with vicarious glee.

"That's—that's bloody _stunning_, Harry—I mean, really," Ron blushed his pleasure, and went pale with stern seriousness the second after. "Of _course_ you can count on me! I mean, _yes_! Yes, I'd be glad to—jeez, _yes_, thanks, Harry—that'd be bloody brilliant! Wait till Hermione hears!"

The room and its surrounds erupted in utter Bedlam at that, what with people overwhelmed by the rapidity of events, and more than glad to see them, and some variously aghast or delighted that _their_ Harry Potter had permanently hooked up with _that_ Draco Malfoy and then going on to express all this excitement physically, cuffing and 'high-fiving' Ron, Harry and Draco in the indiscriminate way people who've worked together long and closely in very dangerous situations had. Seamus and two other mid-levels meanwhile unobtrusively whisked Robards away to a guarded ward at St. Mungo's at the Minister's whispered command, and the threesome who remained in the Minister and madman-free Head Auror's office set themselves to the task of calming their fellows and easing the Department back on proper track.

*

In the emergency stairwell, Harry grunted, the back of his head rapping the concrete with a thump. Thank Merlin for hair and Draco's Cushioning charms, he thought briefly. It was two hours later; he'd missed lunch completely, and Draco had finally threatened to commit mayhem on Harry's arse if he didn't get some pash right this very moment.

"Shite, Draco! Can't you fucking well wait w-wait till w-we get home, damn it? It's only an hour or so more! Ah!"

"No bloody fucking way, Harry," Draco snapped back, pulling off for a quick moment. "We're two fucking hours past schedule now and I'm ready to AK for a simple packet of crisps just to tide me over—if you think I'm going to sit on my ruddy thumbs waiting about a moment longer foryou and that shaggable little arse of yours, you have _got _to be entirely gaga, Scarhead! Now shut your fucking trap and come for me!"

"Gah! Dra—_ngh_—gods! You are such an _arse_, Draco Malfoy, _such_ a bloody, randy, pompous, _selfish_ ar—_oooh_!"

His partner only pressed Harry's prostate all the harder, rendering him incapable of doing much more than gurgling.

"And I know _you_, don't forget," he carried on, unfazed by Harry's desperate lunges against his well-lubed fingers or the rock-hard prick he had just barely between tongue and lip. "We're not setting foot back in that Salazar-be-damned office till I've had my fill of you, Harry Potter—promise me that!"

He sucked—and stroked—hard enough in between words to induce Harry to be agreeable with most anything Malfoy might suggest at all—decamping to the moon, perhaps, or rearranging the bloody stars—provided _he_, in turn, promised not to stop, _ever_.

"N-No? Yes—all right, then! Whatever!" Harry gabbled, "Anything, _anything_—just don't—_don't_!"

But Draco knew what Harry really meant. He always knew what Harry meant. Came with the territory—which was all _his_, thanks ever so much. No one else's, ever.

"Of course not, Harry—got you till the day I die, don't I?" Draco was visibly pleased by this. "Think I'm ever giving _that_ up?"

"Ah—_no_, Draco," Harry gasped, "No! Never! Me, n-neither!" and stopped breathing again when his much-abused thighs were jerked open and his bum was wedged firm against the cold concrete block. He'd have this fucking stairwell repainted first thing, Harry decided, taking advantage of the brief break to breathe and to plan—and then promptly forgot all about that when Draco nibbled on his bloated foreskin.

"You bet your bloody life, Harry," Draco growled, tweaking, and pulling, and jerking Harry's arse up higher yet till the honeycomb texture of the concrete had to be leaving marks all down Harry's back.

"You're all mine, and you know it!" he stated firmly, and inserted one finger again—then two; three and trousers were trailing off at the ankles, unheeded, and Harry was still stretched from the marathon shag in their bath that morning, and damp, humid air hung heavy all about them just from snogging and it was slippery between the two of them and _hard_—

Blunt—Draco hadn't been lying, no—and so achingly tight despite stretching Harry winced away quick tears of pain, and Draco as well, and then—

"_Yes_, Draco—_gods_! _Yes_, Draco!" and it was all ankles and knees propped over shoulders at the very last minute: "Upsy-daisy, there, Harry! Give it up for me, love."

There you are, then! Harry panting. Draco purring. Easy as pie. A piece of cake. Harry moaning. Draco pressing his damp, flushed face into Harry's throat as if it were his touchstone. Shooting fish in a fucking barrel, mate. Harry muttering 'love' and 'want'; Draco pumping harder, _harder_.

A sure thing. Could bet on it.

"_Fuck_!" one of them moaned. The other bit him.

Draco was all done in, and Harry home safe.

_Finite_


End file.
